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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.